


It Had to Be You

by esplanade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esplanade/pseuds/esplanade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy gave him no greeting.  He only continued to stare silently at the road ahead of them.  John shifted in his seat, growing uncomfortable in the silence.<br/>“Sherlock, huh?”  The boy nodded.  “That's an odd name.”<br/>“John, was it?  That's rather pedestrian.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Had to Be You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/gifts).



> So. I was scrolling through [anotherwellkeptsecret's](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com) blog and there was some post where she was excited about a When Harry Met Sally AU.  
> Which was basically motivation enough for me to actually finish the When Harry Met Sally AU I've had sitting on my computer for months.  
> Because god knows I'm such a sap and love any opportunity to cross things over with WHMS. 
> 
> Also her art is just so wonderful. It warms my heart.
> 
> [also apparently she is a Tennesseean with double-jointed knees and a weakness for fluffy things and since I am all of those things too, I naturally feel solidarity.]

It was nearing nightfall in Liverpool, and all John could think about was how he didn't want to leave just yet.

Jeanette and Mike had both come to see him off, Jeanette kissing him goodbye and drawing from him promises that he would call when he got settled. When John turned to say goodbye to Mike, he caught another glimpse of the boy in the driver's seat of the car nearby. He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, and John could have sworn he saw him roll his eyes. The boy was a few years younger than John – couldn't be more than twenty – and had that indifferent and vaguely irritated expression on his face that John usually associated with public school types. He was a friend of Mike's, going to London for uni just as John was going for med school. John had needed a ride, and Mike had provided.

“You sure about this guy, Mike?”

Mike clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh yeah, I've known Sherlock for years. It'll be fine.”

“What am I supposed to say to him for the next few hours? He doesn't look very chatty.”

“He's not. He wouldn't even care if you sat in silence for the whole ride. But he's a good guy.”

John wasn't quite sure he believed him, but still, he threw his bag in the back seat of the car. He had barely sat down in the passenger's seat before the car took off.

The boy gave him no greeting. He only continued to stare silently at the road ahead of them. John shifted in his seat, growing uncomfortable in the silence.

“Sherlock, huh?” The boy nodded. “That's an odd name.”

“John, was it? That's rather pedestrian.”

John laughed, and Sherlock glanced at him for a second, surprised by the reaction. “So you're going to London for uni? That's what Mike said.”

“Yes.”

“To study what?”

Sherlock sighed, unable to escape the chit chat. “Chemistry,” he said sharply.

“I'm going into med school.”

“ _Thrilling_.”

John paused, but only for a moment. “I didn't know you were friends with Mike.”

“I don't have friends.”

“Everybody has friends.”

“ _I_ don't. People can't be friends, really. Human beings are naturally self-serving, and that is not conducive to friendship. Eventually, everyone turns on each other. You may have business associates or acquaintances, but _friends_? Please. It's a naïve notion that people can maintain meaningful and sincere interactions with each other over long periods of time. Mike is an acquaintance I know through my chosen field. I do not have friends.”

John was struck silent, brow furrowed in pure bewilderment.

“Well,” John said, an edge to his voice, “I was going to ask you about yourself, pass the time. But maybe not since people can't really be friends.”

With a little tilt of his head, Sherlock said, “I wouldn't have all that much to tell you anyway. Just as human beings are naturally selfish, human lives are naturally dull, usually.”

John stared at him, resting a hand on the dashboard. “Mike _did_ warn me.”

“Warn you?”

“Yeah. He said you were a bit odd.”

“Oh, and I suppose you're normal?”

“I would say so.”

“The people who consider themselves normal are generally the ones who are not. Besides, normalcy is overrated. The only redeeming qualities, the only things that make anyone interesting, are the dark and twisted streaks they have in them that they try so desperately to beat down for the sake of public approval. Murderers are always interesting, and they certainly aren't what one would call normal. Everyone has a darker streak in them, John, the capacity for something more than hollow chatter and insincere office Christmas parties. Even you.”

“I don't believe that.”

“You should. Better to embrace the oddities in yourself than attempt to fall into the niche the world has created for you. It's the only chance of escaping the tedium.”

 _This is going to be a long drive_.

***                    *                    ***

“Hey, stop up there, will you?”

Sherlock gave an irritated little twist of his face. “Good lord, why?”

“Because I didn't get to eat before I left and I'm starving. It won't kill you.”

“On the contrary –”

“ _Sherlock_.”

With a roll of his eyes, he pulled into the restaurant's lot and parked, following John sullenly inside, hands in his pockets. It was a quiet little place, the kind that had homey menus and old music piped in over the speakers. There was a dinner crowd, a whole slew of what looked like terribly ordinary people.

Sherlock sat down across from John in the booth, arms crossed over his chest. He ignored the menu that was placed in front of him, pushing it to the edge of the table. John gave his order to the waitress, who turned expectantly to Sherlock. He didn't even look up at her. “And nothing for him, I think,” John said with an apologetic smile, handing her the menus.

John was staring down at the tabletop, fiddling aimlessly with the silverware, when Sherlock said, “Why the dull education major?”

“Sorry?”

“The dull education major.”

“Jeanette.”

“What's the phrase? Out of the league?”

“Out of _my_ league. You mean she's out of _my_ league.”

“No, I mean you are out of hers. At best she'll be a teacher to a hoard of annoying six year olds, with a plain, boring little flat somewhere. You have more potential. So why are you wasting your time with her?”

“I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you don't have a girlfriend, do you, Sherlock?”

“Not really my area.”

“Oh. Then I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you don't have a _boy_ friend? Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it's fine. But no. Dull.”

“If you were in a relationship, then you would understand why I'm in one with Jeanette.”

“I highly doubt that. Your relationship is doomed.”

“Our relationship is not _doomed_ ,” John said, a little too loudly. A few of the nearby patrons cut their eyes to him. He sighed and lowered his voice. “Look, it's really not that complicated. We like the same things, we know the same people. She's smart and she's beautiful.”

“Not quite.”

“Why _don't_ you have a girlfriend or boyfriend?” Sherlock started, not knowing quite what to do with the questions turned on him. “I mean, I'm sure the 'people can't be friends' thing doesn't help, but you seem pretty smart and you're attractive enough, so I still find it difficult to believe that you cut yourself off from people entirely. You're still human. I think.”

“You're smart and attractive, and you still manage to draw in people like the boring education major. Attributes are no guarantee of a suitable partner.”

“I'm not that attractive. But Jeanette isn't that concerned with looks.”

“I don't think it's a matter of opinion. Empirically, you are attractive. It isn't a complex observation. At least four women have stolen glances at you since we walked in here, and a few men as well.” John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off. “I don't have any romantic attachments because they get in the way.”

John sat back in his seat. “Get in the way?”

“Yes. Relationships come with certain emotional demands. Far too much trouble. People place such a high premium on sex and relationships, it's rather annoying. All it does is interfere with prime mental functioning.”

“What? It clouds the brain?”

“Absolutely. If it didn't, then it would be much clearer to you that your relationship with the boring education major will last six more months at the maximum.”

“My god, you are a cynical person.”

“I like to think of myself as realistic.”

“I'm tempted to make a bet about me and Jeanette.”

“You would lose your money. Besides, it's highly unlikely we'll see each other after parting ways later tonight. It isn't as if we run in similar crowds.”

“Got that right.”

“However, when you inevitably split, remember that I did warn you.”

The waitress appeared with John's food. He muttered to himself, “Thank god.” 

***                    *                    ***

It was an awkward parting in London, much more so than John had anticipated. Sherlock had continued to verbally spar with him the rest of the way to the city, about a variety of topics. John couldn't deny that he was intelligent, if not a bit pessimistic. In its own way, it was the most fun John had had in weeks.

When John stood on the pavement, looking at Sherlock through the open car window, he said, “Well, thanks for the lift. It was interesting to say the least. Even if people can't be friends.”

“Which they can't.”

“Too bad. You're the only person I know in London.”

“I have no doubt that you will manage to acquire meaningless acquaintances with ease.”

John smiled. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, John.” 

* * *

“Irene liked me because I wasn't intimidated by her.”

“Kate was fearless. Thank goodness.”

“You were worried you'd scare me off.”

“I was.”

“We met through rather odd circumstances.”

“A business associate of hers was a client of mine.”

“I caught them in a rather compromising position.”

“We've had our own compromising positions ever since.” 

* * *

_Five Years Later_

 

“Are you sure about this, John?”

He kissed her. “I'll be fine, Sarah.” She stood in front of him, arms crossed, her brow furrowed in worry. “Come here.” She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

“Be careful.”

“Of course.”

She pulled back from him, her eyes watching something in John's periphery. “John.”

“Yeah?”

“There's a man watching us.” She nodded to the other side of the terminal. John followed her gaze and caught a glimpse of a tall man with dark hair watching them with scrutiny. The man stared at them for a few seconds more before turning and walking away, a long coat sweeping out behind him. “I wonder what was up with that.”

The man was familiar, and it only took his brain a moment to supply the name, _Sherlock_.

“I have no idea.” 

***                    *                    ***

John stepped down the narrow aisle of the plane, his eyes scanning for his seat. When he found it, he stopped, and stared in disbelief at the person sitting in the window seat. Sherlock didn't look at him. He was too preoccupied watching something outside the window. John attempted to be inconspicuous as he sat down.

Within ten seconds, a voice said, “John Watson.”

John shut his eyes for a moment before finally facing Sherlock. “You remember me.”

“Of course.”

“How are you?”

“Irrelevant. Uninteresting.”

“Still the same, then?”

“I'm intrigued.”

“By what?”

“How many months did it last?”

“Sorry?”

“Before you broke up with the boring education major.”

“Her name was Jeanette. Don't you remember?”

“I only remember important things.”

“Like a nonexistent bet we made.”

“Well, how long?”

John let out a huff as the plane began to taxi down the runway. “Four months.”

“I told –”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me so.”

“You were going to be a doctor. I see you succeeded.”

“How do you know that?”

“I didn't know. I saw. But there's more. What are you about to do? The plain looking medical student –”

“ _Sarah_.”

“ – w _hatever –_ looked concerned.”

“It's nothing.”

“Wrong.”

“Fine! I'm going into the army, all right?”

Sherlock watched him with an appraising look, tilting his head back a little, a smile beginning to form. A child who was happy to have won a game against an adult. Sherlock tapped a gloved finger on his leg. “Why on earth are you doing something like that?”

John just shook his head.

“I imagine the girlfriend can't like it too much.”

“Drop it, Sherlock.” Sherlock gave him a dismissive wave of his hand, surrendering. “What have you been up to, then?”

“A bit of this, a bit of that.”

“Did you ever finish school?”

“No. It got dull. I could teach myself better than the teachers could. Figured I would save myself the time.”

The cocky way he said it finally coaxed a smile from John. He shook his head again. “You are ridiculous, you know that, right?”

“So I've been told.”

“Not really the 2.5 children and house in the suburbs type, are you?”

“No.” The plane lurched off of the ground. “Neither are you, though.”

“I'm not?”

“No. Otherwise you wouldn't be joining the military.”

“There are plenty of soldiers with wives and families.”

“But not you.”

“Do you think you know me better than I do?”

“I know _everyone_ better than they do.”

John couldn't help but smile more. 

***                    *                    ***

By the time their plane landed in Dublin, John had lost track of the flight. He slipped into conversation with Sherlock so easily. It was one of the only times in recent memory where he hadn't had to at least somewhat censor his thoughts. Nothing would shock Sherlock Holmes.

During one portion of the flight, Sherlock rattled off deductions about the other passengers and the stewardesses, walking John through his readings.

“Amazing.”

“Simple.”

They walked together through the terminal, Sherlock with his hands in his coat pockets, laughing at something John had said. When John stopped to go his own way to board his next flight, Sherlock paused beside him.

“You know, you can be so bloody abrasive, but you're entertaining, I'll give you that.”

Sherlock smiled, looking off at some people walking past them. “Always glad to amuse.”

“I wish I didn't have another flight to make. I'd say we should grab a bite to eat or something.”

“That would be preferable to enduring dealing with this errand I'm on.”

“Of course, you did say that people couldn't be friends, so that throws a kink in things.”

“When did I say that?”

“When we drove to London.”

Sherlock paused, looking at John. His smile had faded. “Ah. Yes, I did, didn't I?” He looked like he was about to say something more, but finally just extended his hand. “Try not to get shot.”

John grinned, taking it. “I'll do my best.” 

* * *

“I never thought I would end up with Sally.”

“I never thought I'd end up with Phillip. You were still married when I met you.”

“I know. I still feel sort of awful about it.”

“Your wife wasn't happy, no. Is it bad of me to say that I'm really happy that marriage fell apart?”

“Not as bad as it is for me to say that.”

“But it all worked out in the end.”

“Depends on whose side you're on.”

“Well, all that aside, I'm glad.”

“I am too.” 

* * *

_Five Years Later_

 

John sat with his friends at a table in the Criterion. It was an expensive place, far out of John's budget, but he had been unable to find a way around seeing them. It wasn't that he didn't like them, but ever since returning from Afghanistan, everything they said seemed rather meaningless. The whole world to discuss, and all they could talk about was football matches. John couldn't keep from fidgeting, with silverware, napkins, glasses, anything he could get his hands on. His leg was sore, he was socially exhausted, and he just wanted the night to be over.

He couldn't pay attention to whatever his friends were talking about. Not that it mattered. Their conversation, or what passed for it, could easily be faked with a series of noncommittal noises and a few words if the situation called for it. He looked out over the crowded room, past the other tables to the red velvet seats of the long bar. Everyone here seemed elegant and shining, and John couldn't help but wonder if he looked obviously out of place.

There were two men sitting in a pair of the red chairs. One had a haughty expression and an umbrella propped up next to him. The other was beautiful, and very bored.

John did a double take. It couldn't be.

Just as he was thinking it, the man looked up and saw him watching. John watched the recognition come across Sherlock's face, a split second of interest before the other man spoke, drawing what looked like a scathing remark from Sherlock. John grinned, glancing down at the tablecloth.

It was only five minutes before John stood from his table, telling his friends he would be right back, that he needed some air, saying his leg would kill him if he didn't move around a little.

John walked through the bar without pausing to look at Sherlock, going outside and leaning against the building. It was a cool night, but the restaurant had been so packed and claustrophobic that John didn't really mind.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John turned to see Sherlock standing beside him, hands clasped behind his back, staring off at the street.

“So much for hello.”

“Hello is boring.” Sherlock finally looked at him, smiling broadly.

“Afghanistan.”

“I told you not to get shot, but you clearly didn't listen.”

John laughed under his breath. “Yeah, enemy fire doesn't really care what you told me.”

“How is the plain doctor? At least, I assume she's a doctor by now.”

“We broke up. A long time ago. But you knew that already, didn't you?” John couldn't keep the smile off his face.

“Of course. For the best, really. You were terrible for each other. Wouldn't have lasted anyway.”

“It's amazing. You look like a normal person, but actually you are the angel of death.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You would. So what have you been doing? I can't just glance at you and tell, so you'll have to humor me.”

“Solving crimes. And currently my brother is inside trying to talk me into assisting him with some foreign affair.”

“Your _brother_? Oh god, there's two of you?”

“Unfortunately. He's infuriating. I don't particularly want to go back in there. Neither do you.”

“Well that's not entirely true –”

“Oh, please. You've barely been tolerating the company of your so called friends. You don't want to go back.”

John paused, feeling like he should protest, but knowing Sherlock would catch the halfhearted lie. “I really don't.”

“There's a serial killing I've been looking into, if that sounds more appealing to you.”

John pulled his phone out of his pocket, staring at it in his hand for a minute before typing out a message to one of his friends, an excuse about not feeling well. He hit “send.”

“ _Much_ more." 

***                    *                    ***

A day later, John had moved in, and a serial killer was dead.

“You know, when I first met you, I didn't really like you that much,” John said.

“Most don't.”

“Although in my defense, you were a bit of a bastard.”

“Then accept my apology. I rarely give them, so cherish it. It will probably be the last.”

John laughed. “So, what? Are we friends now? Or are you still convinced that people can't be friends?”

Sherlock paused, violin in hand. “Perhaps I was mistaken.” 

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock sat alone in Baker Street one evening at his laptop when a Skype notification came to life on his screen. He tapped a key to answer and sat back in his chair to take a drink of his tea.

John's face appeared. He had his computer sitting just to the side, his head turned to smile at Sherlock.

“How is the tedious conference in Edinburgh?”

“It's in Dublin, Sherlock.”

“Whatever.”

“It's boring as hell, to tell you the truth.”

“Naturally. The company must be equally tedious, or you wouldn't be talking to me. Aren't people supposed to mingle at these things? Go out for nice dinners and drinks and pretend to be interested in each other's work?”

“I guess so.” John's attention was momentarily derailed by a series of loud noises coming from somewhere off-screen.

“What in god's name is that racket?” Sherlock frowned, setting his mug down.

“It's a James Bond movie.”

“A _what_?”

“A spy movie, Sherlock.” John looked back to the camera, and seeing the blank look on Sherlock's face, gave him a channel. Sherlock reached across the table and picked up the remote, turning on the television. He watched quietly for a few minutes before picking up the laptop and going to sit on the sofa, setting the laptop down beside him.

“What is the name of this implausible travesty?”

John laughed. “ _Goldfinger_. It's Sean Connery.”

“ _Goldfinger_ ,” he said as if the word was in a difficult foreign language. “You realize of course that it is highly unlikely that someone could successfully murder someone with a hat.”

“You've seen stranger things.”

“True. But the inaccuracies, John.”

“It's a movie. It's not supposed to be one hundred percent accurate and realistic.”

“Clearly.”

“You're still watching it, though.”

Sherlock whirled around to look at John, who was smiling smugly at him.

“When is this conference over?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Thank god it's nearly done.”

“You're not the one who's had to sit through it.”

“No, but Mycroft keeps trying to fill up my free time with errands, and Mrs. Hudson feels the need to talk to me and 'keep me company' or some such nonsense. I mean, they do realize that I lived alone for years? I can mange for a few days.”

“I'm not going to lie, I can't wait for this conference to be over either. I don't know what to say to half of these people.” The harsh lights in the hotel room didn't suit John like the lights in Baker Street did.

“Well, at least half of those people are imbeciles, if they're anything like the ones I've had to talk to since you've been away. Oh god, the woman's name is Pussy Galore. John, why on earth are you familiar with this movie?”

Despite his issues with the film, Sherlock sat up and watched the rest of it with John's face on his computer screen. John almost seemed more entertained by Sherlock's commentary than the movie itself.

When the credits began, John said, “I have to be up early tomorrow for one of the speakers.”

“I am genuinely sorry.” Sherlock lifted up the computer, setting it in his lap.

“So I'll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“By all means. I appreciate any break in the banality.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.” 

***                    *                    ***

John sat across the table from Sherlock at the restaurant. As always seemed to be the case, John was eating, and Sherlock wasn't.

Sherlock spoke with an edge in his voice. “How was your date with what's-her-name?”

“ _Mary_. I don't know. I think it might have been a disaster.”

“Oh, I'm sure it was fine.”

John looked up from his food to see Sherlock's attempt at a convincing expression. “Yeah, because you'd know.”

“I'm not as uninformed as you think I am.”

“Your relationship history isn't exactly extensive, Sherlock.”

“No, but I've certainly observed enough human interactions to have cataloged quite a bit of information on the subject.”

“I don't know why you don't see anyone, though. I've never quite understood that.”

“People are boring.”

“Is it really as simple as that?”

“Do finish eating, John. We have a case to attend to.” 

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock peered into the microscope in the lab, acutely aware of Lestrade's presence a little ways down the table. He'd been hovering there for ten minutes under the pretense of needing results for a case. Sherlock believed it had a great deal more to do with the fact that Molly Hooper would be returning from her lunch break within the next half-hour.

“How's John?”

“I assume he's fine,” Sherlock said, without raising his eyes from his slide. “Why do you ask? You see him often enough to ask him yourself.”

“You live with him.”

“He isn't around me every moment of the day.”

Lestrade pulled a stool across the floor, the sound grating on Sherlock's nerves. He sat down a couple of feet away from him. “Yeah, but it's different. We don't have the same relationship. He doesn't tell me things he'll tell you.”

“Preposterous.”

“I don't quite understand your relationship to be honest.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock sat back from his microscope, removing the slide and replacing it with a new one.

“You like him.”

“I share a flat with him. Do I really have any other option?”

“No, I mean you _like_ him.”

Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade, who was giving him a cheeky grin like a teenager. “You say that as if it's something significant.”

“It is.”

“Explain.”

“You spend a lot of time around him.”

“Yes.”

“Willingly.”

“Yes.”

“That alone is pretty significant. You _enjoy_ being around him.”

“Well of course I do.”

“I've always sort of wondered if you two were more than flatmates, to tell you the truth.”

Sherlock shook his head and began to examine the new slide. “That's ridiculous, Lestrade. Deductions like that are a perfect example of why you so constantly require my assistance with your cases.” Sherlock let the silence stretch on for a while before adding, “Besides, I think he's seeing someone. Some nurse. I forget her name.”

“Yeah, you always _forget_ their names, don't you?” Sherlock shot a glare at him as the doors to the lab swung open. “Hey, Molly. How are you doing?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he looked back at his slide. 

***                    *                    ***

The New Year's Eve party was at a rather fancy hotel along the river. Everyone was there. Most of the Yard, most of the people from Bart's, even a few journalists that they were all on relatively good terms with.

Unfortunately, perhaps, so were most of their friends, including Mary. John had said multiple times that they weren't together, and that appeared to be true, given how they were interacting with each other. John didn't show her any more attention than he did Sally or Molly.

Lestrade sidled up next to Sherlock, another drink in his hand. He had been going at it steadily all evening, high on his successful interactions with Molly. He smiled at her from across the room while Sherlock looked in the opposite direction. John, talking to Mary.

“Been a nice night,” Lestrade said, more to himself than to Sherlock.

“Hmm.”

“Didn't figure you'd actually show. No one thought you would be here.”

“John asked me to come,” Sherlock said as if he were stating a very obvious fact.

“Oh.” He drew the single syllable out so much that it was clear he was trying to make it sound meaningful. Sherlock didn't see why.

“He said it was the sociable thing to do, to come to this, see everyone.”

“Still didn't think you'd actually do it. But John asked, so that makes sense.”

Sherlock walked away without bringing a proper end to the conversation, shaking Lestrade off like a pest. John was dancing with Mary. He had danced with many other people already that night, but somehow, Mary stung.

 _They're not together_.

Sherlock stepped out onto the balcony, a large one that ran the length of the ballroom they were using for the party. It was easier to breathe, and the city was lit beautifully, shining under a clear, cold night.

“Lovely, isn't it?”

Sherlock suddenly noticed John standing beside him, hands braced on the railing.

“Subjective interpretations.”

“Whatever you say.” John rubbed the base of his neck with one hand, trying to work the tension out of it. “I love seeing everybody, don't get me wrong, but these big parties are exhausting.”

“Understatement.”

John smiled. “Everyone's happy we came, though.”

“So I've been told.”

“Just think, you won't have to fulfill any major social engagements like this for another year.”

“Thank god,” he said, but there was a smile in his voice.

John fell silent, his hand falling back to the railing, fingers tapping the stone. “Thank you for coming.”

Sherlock turned toward him. “Well, you asked me to.”

“It's always good to have someone around to keep you from having to talk to people you don't like,” he said with a grin.

“And yet, some people still get through the filters.”

“Better than nothing.”

“Yes.”

They both jerked their heads toward the ballroom when they heard the shouting, an enthusiastic countdown ending with cheers and “Auld Lang Syne.” Everyone was pouring drinks and singing along, hugging and kissing people, all traditions Sherlock had never understood. Lestrade kissed Molly, who turned bright red before kissing him back. Typical. They were all so preoccupied they probably hadn't even realized that neither John nor Sherlock were even in the room anymore.

Sherlock looked to John to find John already watching him, an unfamiliar expression on his face. His eyes flitted between Sherlock and all of the other revelers inside. He turned to Sherlock, started to speak, failed, held out a hand, drew it back, and shook his head. In a quick motion he stepped forward and craned his neck to kiss Sherlock, just at the edge of his lips. John had stepped away before Sherlock was even able to process it.

“Happy New Year,” he finally said, his voice sounding considerably less sure than it usually did.

“Happy New Year, John.” 

* * *

“I might not have ever met Greg if it weren't for both of us knowing Sherlock.”

“I remember when I first saw Molly, I knew.”

“Even though you tried to patch things up with your wife.”

“Yeah, even then. I knew. She was beautiful and smart and a wonderful woman.”

“Well you're not too bad yourself.”

“Though you did scare me a bit, what with being able to talk about corpses over dinner.”

“At least I've gotten better about not waving brains under your nose.”

“We really did luck out. This is the happiest I've been in years.”

“Happily ever after.” 

* * *

“Do we have to do this?”

“They're two of our closest friends, _yes_.”

Sherlock made a little noise of disapproval but obediently followed John around the store. The place was full of things, most of which Sherlock didn't even recognize, let alone know whether or not they were appropriate wedding gifts.

“Lestrade and Molly. Of all people.” Sherlock paused to look at a strange contraption that supposedly belonged in a kitchen. John grabbed his arm and pulled him away from it.

“I'm surprised you haven't told them their relationship is doomed. That's what you usually do.”

“Their relationship _isn't_ doomed. That's just it. They'll probably spend the rest of their lives together and retire to some little house outside of the city with a hoard of grandchildren coming to visit them.” He said all of this with just a hint of disdain.

“I thought you told everyone their relationships were doomed.”

“No, mostly just yours.”

“Why mine?” John picked up another threatening looking kitchen object before shaking his head and setting it down.

“How's Mary?”

“Shut up,” John said without looking at him, trying to shrug it off. Point made.

“Sherlock?” A voice came from across the room. A tall blond man walked toward the two of them, smiling brightly. Sherlock sighed to himself before attempting a polite smile. “How are you? I haven't seen you in years!” The man looked to John, reaching out to shake his hand. John ran his eyes over the man in confusion. “Victor Trevor. Pleasure to meet you.” He looked to Sherlock for an introduction.

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him. “Victor, this is John Watson. A friend of mine.”

Victor tilted his head in understanding, smiling. “So you're doing good then, yeah?”

“Well enough.”

Sherlock continued to make polite conversation while John watched on in increasingly stunned silence. When the man finally left, waving as he did, John watched Sherlock's smile vanish as it did when he spoke to clients and Mycroft.

John kept waiting for Sherlock to say something, anything, but Sherlock just glanced around at various items in the store as if nothing had happened.

“So who was that?”

“Someone I used to know.”

“Obviously. But last time I checked, you didn't have a lot of names in your address book, and I can't recall you ever mentioning anyone named Victor.” The two of them began to walk through a different section of the store, full of equally baffling and seemingly useless household objects.

“It's nothing. I knew him when I was still at university.”

“Friend?”

“I told you I didn't have friends.”

“Well, I mean, he seemed happy to run into you, and that's usually how friends are.”

“Just a student I knew.” John stopped walking, his face suddenly shifting from mild curiosity to total disbelief. Sherlock was forced to stop and face him. “What?”

“Oh my god, that was your ex.”

“My _what_?”

“You used to date him, didn't you?”

“Don't be absurd, John. I have never, nor do I intend to ever _date_ anyone.”

John laughed. “Call it what you want, then.”

Sherlock prickled at the remark, straightening up and meeting John's knowing smile. “When was the last time you talked to Mary?”

“Are you really going to pull that card?”

“Are you going to continue to insinuate that I was in a relationship with someone despite years of evidence pointing to the contrary?”

“It's been a while since I talked to her.”

“Thought so.”

“Well, you're always so pleased with you talent at determining the fates of relationships. So what's the verdict on Mary?”

Sherlock paused, and then said with perhaps far too much satisfaction, “Well, I highly doubt wedding gifts will ever be an issue.” 

***                    *                    ***

One night a few weeks later, John came home to find Sherlock sitting at his microscope in the kitchen, a James Bond movie playing on the television in the next room. He grinned as he walked up to the table, setting his keys down and pulling out a chair.

“ _The Spy Who Loved Me_?”

“I needed background noise.”

“Sure.” He sat down near Sherlock, leaning his arms on the table. “I just came from Mary's.”

“I know.”

“We split for good. Officially, I mean. We decided it would be best if we didn't see each other.”

“Of course you did.”

“Don't bother being all comforting and tactful.”

Sherlock looked at him over the microscope. “Well you don't seem especially sad.”

“I'm not, actually.”

“Then there's no sense in offering condolences.”

“I'm starting to get convinced that there's no sense in it at all.”

“In what?”

“All of it. You know what Mary told me? She said I wasn't meant for a normal relationship. And maybe she's right. Everyone around me is getting married and having children and going to their day jobs. Meanwhile I'm a doctor who barely practices and I split a flat with a mad detective.”

“What do relationships require?”

“Emotional commitment. Being able to actually stand being around someone for long periods of time. Just having someone there at the end of the day. Why?”

“Then by your own definition, you were never in a relationship with Mary.” John paused, struck by the remark. “And by your own definition, many of the people who are getting married and having children or whatever it is people do aren't in relationships either. They're merely following a script. Better to be unconventional than hollow. Stop worrying about it.” Sherlock looked back down at his slides.

“That's...surprisingly emotionally intelligent coming from you.”

“I told you, years of observation. I've watched many people throw away what they want in favor of what they are supposed to want. It never works. Human error.” He spun the knob on the microscope, squinting at whatever he was looking at, vaguely displeased by what he saw. “If you want a relationship that badly, you'll find one.”

“You give me too much credit. I'm difficult. The running after serial killers alone is a bit problematic.”

Sherlock smirked. “But so entertaining.” He backed his face away from the microscope, John laughing to himself.

John met his eyes, and his smile faded, and he grew very still, unable to look anywhere else. Sherlock frowned. He was about to ask if John was all right, when John closed the distance between them, a hard, starved kiss. Then nothing but a blur of lips and stolen breaths, a hand on his face, another on his waist. He stood up from the table, dragging John with him, his hand finding the small of John's back, pulling him closer. John backed him up against the kitchen counter, his hands puling at Sherlock's shirt, fighting to reach the bare skin beneath it. And for a minute all that mattered was Sherlock's hands on him, and the ragged voice that asked him, “All right?”

“Oh, god, yes.” 

 ***                    *                    ***  

When Molly walked into the lab early the following morning, she found Sherlock already at his usual place at the bench. He was preparing a set of petri dishes, but seemed too distracted to really accomplish anything.

“You okay?”

He hadn't even noticed she'd come in. “Yes, of course.”

Molly stared at him for a long time, watching the series of little changes cross his face. Anxiety. Panic. Self-loathing.

“Oh, god. You've done something awful haven't you?”

“Sorry?”

“Are you avoiding John?”

Sherlock looked up at her, setting the dish down. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, it's seven in the morning.”

“So?”

“You're never in here this early unless you're on a case. And if it's a case, you're here with John.” Sherlock said nothing, though he tried to speak, and failed. “So you must be avoiding him.” Sherlock gave her a small tilt of his head. “Oh, Sherlock, you –”

“Let's not have this conversation, Molly.”

“But –”

“ _Molly_.”

Molly held up her hands in surrender, but all through the morning, even though she was working quietly on her own, Sherlock could almost feel all the things she was resisting saying. 

***                    *                    ***

Later that afternoon, John arrived at the lab, unannounced. As soon as he walked in, Molly walked out, making a quick excuse that John ignored so easily that Sherlock was sure she had something to do with John's presence. The doors fell shut with a slam behind her as she left. Sherlock continued working for as long as he could before the silence became unbearable.

John was standing at the end of the bench, his arms crossed, staring at the floor. He nervously shifted on his feet.

As Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, John said, “Mistake.”

When John looked at him, Sherlock attempted to be indifferent. “Couldn't agree more.”

“I mean –”

“I know what you mean. And you're right.”

“Right.”

“I'm relieved, actually.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The atmosphere grew steadily more awkward, and was blessedly broken by Molly's return. She had her mobile phone in her hand, which she held out toward the both of them.

“Greg. He said neither of you were answering. He has a case for you.”

Sherlock spared one glance to John before standing from the bench and taking the phone from Molly, his face flooded with relief. He paced around the room, asking a question here or there, occasionally with a tense clench of his jaw. The look was familiar, that moment where his brain took over, kicking everything else, all the petty things that most people found so important, out of his head until further notice. John would have been lying if he said he wasn't grateful for the intrusion, especially with the worried looks Molly kept giving them.

When Sherlock was done, he handed the phone back to Molly without even hanging up. He grabbed his coat, putting it on as he walked toward the lab doors. Without looking back, he said, “Coming, John?” John paused for a moment, but followed, catching up just as the doors were swinging shut.

Molly stood by the door watching them through the glass as they walked away. She put the phone back up to her ear.

“How are they?”

“Rather tense,” she said.

“Is Sherlock even going to be able to focus on this case?”

“Maybe. I think he'd rather focus on that than the alternative.”

“Christ.”

“Greg, promise me something.”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me that I'll never have to be out there again.”

There was a pause before he responded, a smile in his voice. “You'll never have to be out there again.” 

***                    *                    ***

The day of Molly and Lestrade's wedding, Mrs. Hudson set out the usual morning tea in the living room. Sherlock was waiting for the last possible moment to get dressed in the uncomfortable wedding clothes, pacing around the room, periodically stopping to fidget with things on the table or mantel. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the shower running.

“Big day's finally here,” Mrs. Hudson said, setting the tray down. She'd been excited about the wedding for weeks, though Sherlock couldn't possibly imagine why. “I think it's nice that you're bringing John.”

“ _Bringing_ him?” Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room, practically scandalized. “I'm not _bringing him_. We have mutual friends who are getting married, and we live at the same address. We're both going to be there anyway, as will you, although I certainly won't be there of my own free will.”

“Whatever you say, dear.” She smiled as she left the room. Sherlock frowned after her. 

***                    *                    ***

It was nearing the holidays, and Molly and Lestrade had taken full advantage of the fact. The reception hall was festooned in holly and evergreen, and the cake decorated with poinsettias. Molly's bridesmaids were even dressed in a deep Christmas red. The combination of two things that Sherlock found arbitrary and unnecessary, weddings and holidays, had come together to create an absolutely miserable evening.

All day things had been uncomfortable with John. Even the ride to the wedding was tense and awkward. Sherlock hated it, but not as much as he would have hated discussing it. John had avoided eye contact, as he always did when something was bothering him, and even Mrs. Hudson had seemed concerned at the deliberate distance they had kept between each other all day. But they both showed up and did what they were supposed to, for the sake of their friends.

Sherlock had spent so long believing that people couldn't be friends, and here he was, suffering through this social nightmare for people he called friends. Or at least, people who called _him_ a friend.

When he looked at John, he almost wished that he had been right in the first place. Being friends seemed to cause nothing but problems.

Still, John couldn't help but make the effort to pretend that everything was fine. So Sherlock wasn't all that surprised when he walked over to stand by him on the edge of the room, looking out at all the other guests.

“Beautiful wedding.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, Sherlock, it was. I'm very happy for them.”

“Are you?”

John let out a frustrated sigh. “Yes. I am.” John rubbed a hand over his eyes, looking tired. “I hate the holidays sometimes.”

“Makes for the most interesting murders though.”

“God, so much for Christmas cheer.”

“You just said you hated this time of year.”

“I know I did. I just.” He shook his head.

“What?”

“No, I was just thinking about something. Don't worry about it.”

The tone in his voice set off all the warning alarms in Sherlock's head. But all he said was, “Fine. If you insist.”

After a long silence, John said, “I just hate that we've been avoiding each other lately.”

“How do we avoid each other? We live in the same flat.”

“Well, we've certainly managed to. I don't know what to say to you.”

“You don't have to say anything.”

“Maybe that's the problem. Maybe we _should_ say something.”

“We both agreed it was a mistake.”

John looked around to see if anyone could overhear them, and then dragged Sherlock closer to the wall, farthest away from everyone else as he could manage. “Look, mistake is one thing. But constantly letting it hang over our heads every hour of every day is another.”

“It doesn't have to dominate every hour of every day. You're blowing things out of proportion.” Sherlock realized the error he'd made as soon as he'd said it.

“Really? That's where you're going with this? I'm blowing things out of proportion? Do you realize that everyone in this room could probably have this argument with us? We could practically pick teams.”

“Why on earth would any of them care?”

“You have no idea, do you?”

“Apparently not. Enlighten me,” he said through his teeth.

“Jesus Christ. You know, so many people have told me that you weren't human, and I never wanted to believe them, but this thing where you compartmentalize your entire life? You can't keep doing that, and you can't keep pretending that you're fine without other people. You have friends and family, and yet you still pull this aloof crap, and sometimes I think it's a miracle that people stay.”

“You're saying these things because you're irritated and tense. You know they aren't rational.”

“Well excuse me for not being able to keep myself insulated from the rest of the world like you.”

“Does all of this really bother you? What they say? How I maintain my interactions with others? I don't understand. Why would it bother _you_?”

“You _machine_. Sherlock, trust me, there is _plenty_ you don't understand.”

Sherlock drew back, seemingly more offended by that than anything else John had said. “John, I –”

A voice stopped him. Lestrade, toasting the two of them. The entire room had turned to stare at them. Lestrade kept talking, something about how if it weren't for the two of them always solving murders together that he and Molly would never have become so close. Sherlock seemed to only hear every other word, barely processing half of what Lestrade said. People clapped, glasses were raised. But all Sherlock could do was glance over at John, who stood almost at attention like the soldier he had been, his jaw set and an incredibly tense smile on his face.

When the attention was finally drawn away from the two of them, Sherlock left the room, standing in the hall for a while before he decided to leave the wedding entirely.    

***                    *                    ***

Christmas night, after everyone had gone home and Mrs. Hudson had retired to her own rooms downstairs, Sherlock went directly to his laptop, working like a man possessed on something that he had likely spent the entire evening thinking about. He had never been skilled at relaxed social gatherings, not when he had something on his mind.

John stood across the room by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Are you going to that New Year's party again this year?”

Without looking up from the screen, Sherlock said, “No. What reason would I have to go to that?”

After a silence broken only by the crackle of the fire, the quiet voice answered.

“No reason at all.” 

***                    *                    ***

The party was larger than the year before, and John was absolutely miserable.

Mary walked up, handing him a glass of champagne. “You know, just because we're both here, sort of together, it doesn't mean that we're actually together.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.”

She gave him a sort of sad smile as he took a drink. “I honestly expected you to be here with Sherlock.”

“Why's that?”

“Seriously?”

John took a moment, shaking his head a little. “Why did I let you talk me into coming to this thing?”

“Because otherwise you'd be off somewhere moping. You're actually moping a bit _here_.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I get it. Really. But try to have a nice time this evening. It might do you some good.”

John nodded, but he wasn't sure he believed her. 

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock sat alone in Baker Street, watching the minutes tick by on the clock. Mrs. Hudson, too tired herself to go to the party, had made multiple efforts in talking him into going. But of course he'd quite stubbornly shot that idea down. However, he didn't plan far enough to have an alternative way of spending the evening lined up. As a result, he had fallen to bouncing between things and accomplishing nothing. A few minutes at the microscope, a few at the laptop, a few at the violin. He'd even been desperate enough for a distraction that he'd turned the television on, but all that he could find were New Year's specials. He had finally just given up and shut the television off, smashing the button on the remote like it had personally offended him.

He had been unable to make himself move from the sofa, the remote still sitting on it next to him. Every tiny sound was amplified, every minor irritation a thousand times more glaring.

He could hear John's voice in his head. This wasn't a rare occurrence, as John had invaded his mental space many times before. But tonight it was unbearable, and replays of random moments and conversations wouldn't stop running through his head like a taunting movie.

_“Well, thanks for the lift. It was interesting to say the least. Even if people can't be friends.”_

_“Which they can't.”_

_“Too bad. You're the only person I know in London.”_

Sherlock stood, crossing the room to his violin. It had been a while since he'd tried that. Maybe it would work this time, would drown John out.

_“Do you think you know me better than I do?”_

_“I know everyone better than they do.”_

He played, a furious sounding song that was terribly ill-suited to New Year's Eve.

_“So, what? Are we friends now? Or are you still convinced that people can't be friends?”_

_“Perhaps I was mistaken.”_

It wasn't loud enough. Nothing was.

Sherlock sat the violin down in frustration.

_“I don't know why you don't see anyone, though. I've never quite understood that.”_

_“People are boring.”_

_“Is it really as simple as that?”_

He started pacing back and forth across the room, trying to will his mind into silence.

_“What do relationships require?”_

_“Emotional commitment. Being able to actually stand being around someone for long periods of time. Just having someone there at the end of the day. Why?”_

_“Then by your own definition, you were never in a relationship with Mary.”_

He stopped, struck suddenly by the truth of what he had always considered an obvious conclusion. Of course John had never been in a relationship with Mary.

But it was a bad idea, he told himself. There was no sense in thinking about these things after the two of them had been so stupid. There had been chances. So many chances. And they had missed all of them.

Sherlock glanced at John's vacant chair. Why did it feel like he was somewhere much farther away than any New Year's Eve party?

He grabbed his coat from the hook on the door and headed outside, needing to be somewhere less still, less empty.

It was freezing outside, but that didn't keep the streets from being filled with people, most of them in fancy clothes, laughing and glittering like stars. Every block seemed to yield more of these people. They were all so goddamn happy. Sherlock became quickly aware that he was the only person walking around alone, and he despised their companionship.

Block after block, he walked, hoping that distancing himself from Baker Street might distance himself from all these memories. But it didn't. The entire world was still only John Watson.

With a sudden rush of purpose, he called out and hailed a cab. 

***                    *                    ***

“I think I'm going to go ahead and leave, Mary.”

“Oh, John, don't do that. It's almost midnight. Stay.”

“I just can't do it tonight.” He shook his head.

Mary finally nodded in understanding, and hugged him. “I'll make excuses for you.”

“Thank you.”

John pushed his way through the crowd to get his coat from his table across the room. He broke through the wall of people and stopped at his chair for a moment, picking up his coat and feeling overwhelmed.

The feeling increased exponentially when he turned to leave and found Sherlock standing just inside the room, scanning the crowd. When his eyes found John, he pushed through the people and came to a halt in front of him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I've been thinking. And I realized something. It's always been you. From day one, from that stupid car ride.”

“What the hell do you expect me to say to that, Sherlock?”

“An expression of reciprocation.”

John scoffed, moved to leave, but Sherlock stood his ground and wouldn't let him pass. “What is all that? Some sort of Sherlock-speak for 'I love you?' ”

“Unfortunately, that is the case.”

“ _Unfortunately_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as everyone began the countdown to the New Year. He reached out and held John by his arms, demanding his attention. “The point is that I am well aware that I am unpleasant, rude, ignorant, ridiculous, and obnoxious. And yet still I've somehow managed to become your friend. For years and years, it always came back to you. Always. I've been redeemed by your friendship so many times and in so many ways. And so I find myself in the strangest position I've ever been in. I love that you are entirely incapable of living a normal life. I love that you live on the same rushes of adrenaline that I do. I love that you always glance away laughing when someone says something that amuses you. I love that you protect and comfort those who cannot protect or comfort themselves. I love that you are constantly teaching me so many things that I never knew. I love that you trust me with your life when you don't even trust most people to tell you the time. And I love that at the end of the day, I always get to come home to you and that a place only feels like home if you inhabit it. You are the best man, the kindest and bravest man that I have ever known or ever will know, and whenever I imagine my future, you are always a part of it. None of this was ever supposed to happen to me. But I am so grateful that it did.”

The crowd around them broke out into “Auld Lang Syne,” cheers of “Happy New Year,” confetti falling over the room. Some of it fell in Sherlock's hair like snow, and it looked so ridiculous on him, an absurd contrast to the sincere and nearly upset look on his face. John couldn't keep from laughing.

Sherlock grew more concerned. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No, you didn't, you idiot. Come here.” He grabbed Sherlock's scarf, pulling him down to his level, and kissed him. Sherlock's hands cupped his face, drawing him as close as he could. And it still wasn't close enough.

When they broke apart, they were both smiling like fools and breathless. After a moment, a hand still on John's face, Sherlock cleared his throat and said very seriously, “I've never understood the point of celebrating the new year like we do. The entire tradition is rather absurd when you consider that the day itself is arbitrary and the concept of dividing time into years was something human beings constructed in a vain attempt to organize the chaos of the universe.”

John reached up, brushing confetti out of Sherlock's hair. “Well, thank goodness we both rather like a bit of chaos.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock said, barely audible over the crowd. He smiled and kissed John, thinking to himself that he would gladly say to hell with the impossible and never let him go. 

* * *

“We hated each other when we first met.”

“Nonsense, John. You hated me. I didn't hate you.”

“I thought you were a pompous bastard.”

“I _am_ a pompous bastard.”

“But then we ended up friends.”

“And everyone called him crazy for being friends with me.”

“They were probably right. But that seemed to work for us.”

“You know our friends were taking bets?”

“Bets?”

“On how long it would be before we ended up romantically involved with one another.”

“Who won?”

“Molly. She said we had to _dance around each other_ for a while first.”

“Who was the farthest off?”

“Gary. He thought we would last perhaps two weeks.”

“ _Greg_.”

“Whatever.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [It Had to Be You](http://thenightisland.tumblr.com/post/89514596909)


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